


Trust

by Azdak



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azdak/pseuds/Azdak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every mission ends in friendship and harmony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

"And so, on the eve of our greatest triumph, when we are about to take the free world into the palm of our hands, and squeeze it very, _very_ tightly, it is my honor and pleasure to welcome as our guest Mr Xerxes Safire, from Thrush Central! Mr Safire, sir, your very good health!"

The table broke into thunderous clapping and cheers as Professor Delancey raised his glass to the VIP visitor sitting on his right. Smiling back graciously, Napoleon Solo lifted his hand to quell the applause.

"Gentlemen! Professor!" he said, rising to his feet, the eyes of the whole table upon him, "The honor is entirely mine. Thrush Central is delighted to be associated with so ambitious a project, though we do have some slight concerns that the current storage facilities for the virus are inadequately protected. We recommend postponing the release date by a few days in order to ensure that they are not vulnerable to an UNCLE attack during those crucial first 24 hours. But the Professor and I can discuss this further after dinner. For now, gentlemen, my heartiest congratulations to you all. To Project Deathwatch! May it exceed even your wildest dreams!"

He raised his glass, and the assembled company enthusiastically followed his lead. As the servants began to circulate around the table with the _entrées_ , a butler entered the dining hall through a side door and approached the Professor. "Mumble mumble have apprehended mumble in the grounds, sir," Napoleon heard him murmur discreetly into his master's ear.

"An UNCLE agent?" said the Professor in astonishment. In defiance of all the laws of physiology, Napoleon felt the temperature in his bowels drop below freezing. What the hell was an UNCLE agent doing in the satrapy?

"What the hell is an UNCLE agent doing in the satrapy?" demanded the Professor, in an unwelcome example of great minds thinking alike.

"We have not been able to ascertain that, sir," said the butler regretfully.

"Well, bring him in," snapped the Professor. "We can't have UNCLE agents crawling around as if they owned the place."

Napoleon had difficulty suppressing a groan when he saw the prisoner, propped rather unsteadily between two guards. Illya. He might have guessed it. No-one else had such a well-developed talent for attracting trouble. It still didn't explain what his friend was doing there in the first place, but it was a good enough explanation for why he'd been caught. He wished the answer to the question of what to do about it was equally obvious. Given the presence of the entire satrapy, it would have been tricky enough to engineer an escape at the best of times, but under the current circumstances, faced with the absolute necessity of preserving his cover, Napoleon felt that even he could reasonably consider it impossible. But then achieving the impossible was his speciality - it was why he was here in the first place, because who else could sweet talk a mad professor into delaying the release of a flesh-eating virus? - and perhaps the solution was the same in both cases: buy time for others to act.

Of course, representatives from Thrush Central were not known for their merciful, time-buying attitude towards captured UNCLE agents...

Aid came from an unexpected quarter. As he was bestowing a precautionary ferocious glance on Illya, who returned it with perfect blankness, he felt Lajos Zoltan, Delancey's head of security, stir beside him in his seat.

"What shall we do with him, Professor?" he asked huskily. Napoleon felt a little tingle of disgust. So Zoltan was a man who enjoyed his work. Well, that would make things easier. It always did, when the enemy had a private agenda.

Illya had clearly picked up on it as well. He was looking at Zoltan with a flicker of fear in his eyes, a flicker guaranteed to rouse the man's interest. It wasn't the first time Napoleon had had cause to be grateful for Illya's ability to attract their opponents' attention by looking like the weakest link. Illya could radiate unwitting vulnerability like nobody else in UNCLE. Well, maybe April outdid him, but she had the unfair advantage of being a girl. Napoleon wasn't sure quite exactly how Illya managed it, but time and again it had led to their enemies underestimating him, dropping their guard in the belief that here was someone who would crumble easily, a boy sent to do a man's job.

It was effective, but it was a double-edged sword, because sometimes they met people who rose to that vulnerability like fish to bait. And had taken a big bite before they discovered the hook. People like Zoltan.

Illya's face hadn't changed, as far as Napoleon could see, but he had gone very still, his pupils widening as he stared at the security chief. Beside Napoleon, Zoltan drew in a breath.

Hooked.

Under the circumstances, it wasn't entirely reassuring.

"What do you want us to do with him?" Zoltan repeated.

"Well," began Delancey uncertainly, and Napoleon seized his chance.

"Kill him," he said flatly, and turned his attention to the _paté au fois gras_ which was, he had to admit, excellent, although not quite as capable of holding his full interest as he was pretending.

"But, Mr Safire," protested Zoltan, right on cue, and Napoleon released a slow breath.

"Yes?" he said, pushing a piece of _fois gras_ into his mouth.

"What if he has information we can use? We should interrogate him first."

Napoleon didn't have to feign displeasure in his response. "UNCLE agents are like ants," he said forcefully. "If one has found his way here, others will follow, and in no time the place will be overrun. Whatever happens, we shall have to begin operations all over again at a new location. What does it matter what UNCLE knows?"

"I still think we should interrogate him first, sir. Perhaps UNCLE knows less than we fear."

"Oh well, if you insist," said Napoleon with as much reluctance as he could muster. He took a swig of Château St Claire '59. His mouth was so dry, he didn't think he could manage another bite of paté, but it wouldn't do to look as if the prospect of torture was putting him off his food.

He didn't bother to look up as the prisoner was dragged from the room, but just before the door closed he turned to Zoltan and said "I'll drop by later and see how you're doing. Now I come to think of it, there a couple of things he might be able to enlighten us about."

"Of course, Mr Safire," said Zoltan effusively, although he didn't look particularly pleased at the prospect of his superior's interference. If he was going to rise any further in the hierarchy, he could do worse than take a few acting lessons from Illya. "If you will excuse me," - he rose from his chair - "I shall go and make a start."

Napoleon waved a fork at him. "Oh for God's sake, man, eat your meal first. You're much better off letting the fellow cool his heels so he can worry about what's to come. Psychology, you know. And you'll need it - he'll be tougher than he looks."

Zoltan's expressive face did an extremely poor job at hiding his frustration. However, he could hardly argue with a visiting Central dignitary, so he merely clicked his heels and bowed. Napoleon thrust a plate of quail's eggs under his nose and said "Did I ever tell you about the time I got the plans for Zurich HQ out of an UNCLE agent? They always tell you truth drugs don't work except on direct questions, but I figured out that if you…"

He elaborated the story into endless detail, but it couldn't keep Zoltan's attention past the main course. The moment Napoleon had accepted a plate of dessert, the man made his excuses. Trapped behind an unfeasibly large helping of _crème brulée_ , Napoleon could only hope that Illya had used the time he had bought him to make an inventive escape.

Illya hadn't, of course. Accordingly, he and Zoltan had spent the dessert course getting to know each other. Napoleon's arrival at the interrogation cells was delayed still further by the necessity of stopping off to pick up, and then tamper with, some veridicals on the way, and by the time he got there it was evident that the delay had been painful for all concerned. Illya was looking bruised, and Zoltan flushed and annoyed.

"I've just been softening him up for you, Mr Safire," he said, sounding rather out of breath.

"That's a euphemism for 'I haven't got anything out of him yet,' I take it?" said Napoleon, looking round for somewhere to sit down. He didn't want to get his suit dirty, and he was sure Safire wouldn't have wanted to either.

"Get our visitor a chair," ordered Zoltan, and the guard disappeared. One down, thought Napoleon. If he took out Zoltan now, there was a fair chance of getting out of here in one piece. The price, however, would be blowing his cover, thereby undoing all his good work in persuading the Professor to postpone the start of Project Deathwatch. If Thrush didn't delay the release of the virus until UNCLE had perfected the antidote, there would be hell to pay.

"That was just the _hors d'oeuvre_ ," said Zoltan, offended by his superior's sarcasm, and unaware of just how close he had been standing to sudden death. "I've been waiting to show you this particular technique - I find it very effective."

"Oh, good," said Napoleon, smiling brightly to hide a sudden stab of anxiety that he had made the wrong decision, "That will make a pleasant change. And just what does this technique involve?"

With the air of a conjurer feeling about inside a hat, Zoltan pushed Illya's head down into the slops bucket. Napoleon assumed an expression of polite interest. He'd been worrying unnecessarily - this was basic stuff that any Survival School graduate could handle. Illya came up gasping for air, and Zoltan pushed him down again, and then again. This time, though, the ducking lasted for longer. Much longer. Illya began to thrash around, albeit ineffectually, since his hands were tied behind his back. Zoltan grinned, and winked at Napoleon.

"Don't you think that's enough?" enquired Napoleon mildly. "I thought you wanted him alive."

"Oh, I think a tough UNCLE agent like this can handle a bit more," said Zoltan. Illya's thrashing grew wilder, then suddenly a rush of bubbles rose to the surface of the bucket. His legs kicked feebly once or twice, and he collapsed.

Zoltan rolled him over onto the floor where he lay limp and unmoving. For a moment Napoleon held his breath, then the security chief put his foot on Illya's stomach and gave a sharp push. Instantly, water spurted out of Illya's mouth. With Zoltan blocking his view, Napoleon couldn't see if it was a whole lungful of water, or just a mouthful, the amount they'd been taught to conceal and then spew up in order to trick interrogators. Certainly Illya was coughing and retching as if he'd just had a lungful of mustard gas, but then, Illya was a good actor. Even Napoleon couldn't always tell when he was faking. And frankly, he'd rather not put it to the test.

He leaned forward. "Why don't you tell the nice man how much UNCLE knows about our operations?" he suggested.

Illya looked up at him from beneath his dripping hair and broke into another fit of coughing. His face was too dirty to see clearly, but one eye was swollen shut and his lower lip was bleeding.

"Answer the question!" growled Zoltan, and lashed out again with his foot. "What have you told them?"

"Nothing!" said Illya hastily, "I don't know anything! I was just sent to do basic reconaissance!"

With a sudden jerk Zoltan pulled him to his feet and flung him against the opposite wall. Illya staggered backwards the last couple of steps and his head cracked against the tiles. Napoleon couldn't repress a wince. It was possible, he told himself firmly, that the sound had been made by Illya striking the wall with the flat of his hand, rather than his head, but watching the way he slid down the wall as if his legs had turned to rubber, he had to admit that it was unlikely. Although Illya was a good actor. A very good actor.

Clinging to that thought, he cocked an eyebrow at Zoltan, unsure of how to proceed. He didn't want to sound like a bleeding heart, but on the other hand he didn't want the man to kill Illya right under his nose. What he needed, desperately needed, was a plan. If he took out Zoltan right now, pretended he'd been knocked out himself - he glanced up at the ceiling and saw the security camera. All right, so that wasn't the plan he needed. "Think, Solo, think!" his conscious mind demanded of his subconscious, but the order was met with a resounding silence.

At that moment the guard returned, putting an end to all possibilities involving violence.

"I've brought your chair, sir," he said.

"Why, thank you - most kind," said Napoleon. He took his time getting himself settled, and looked up to find Zoltan glaring at him. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he said brusquely.

Zoltan glowered. "Give me the prussic acid," he said to the guard. "I've never known that to fail."

Illya's one good eye widened. He looked imploringly over at Napoleon. And at that moment, in a surge of adrenaline, a plan unfolded in Napoleon's head. A beautiful plan, simple and elegant, a plan that would kill all his little birds with one stone and might just allow him and Illya to walk out of here under their own steam.

"Yes, and you've never known the bucket trick to fail either," he snapped. "This is a waste of time. You've had your fun, Zoltan, now let's get down to business. Veridicals are the only way to conduct a professional interrogation."

Getting to his feet, he pulled the package out of his pocket, opened it, and slid the needle into the phial he'd prepared earlier. It contained nothing more harmful than home-made saline solution - a combination of freshly ground sea salt, as served at the best Thrush dinners, and washroom tapwater - though he would still have to be careful administering it.

"Get him up, would you?" he said to Zoltan, as he watched the fluid rise into the syringe. "I don't want to get dirt on this suit."

Zoltan pulled Illya to his feet.

"Untie him," ordered Napoleon, "I need to get the needle into exactly the right spot - you'd be amazed what a difference that makes."

Taking out a pocket handkerchief, he wrapped it cautiously around Illya's wrist and then turned his forearm over, searching for the vein. From close up, Illya looked completely out of it. The skin was stretched tight over the bones of his face, his good eye was half shut, and he was swaying on his feet. Napoleon frowned; it was absolutely essential that Illya be conscious enough to understand what was required of him.

"These are truth drugs," he said, holding the needle under Illya's nose. Illya went cross-eyed with the effort of focusing. "When I have injected you with them, you will have no choice but to tell the truth. Listen to me: Everyone will know that what you are saying is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And what I want to know is this: Is there a mole in this satrapy?"

"What?" gasped Zoltan. "That's not possible! How can there be a mole? Everyone here is completely loyal!"

"How else would UNCLE know to send an agent here?" demanded Napoleon. "Comes as a shock, doesn't it, Zoltan? But we at Central have had a nasty suspicion for a while now. It's a great stroke of luck that this fellow should fall into our hands."

He glanced sharply at Illya, hoping for some sign that he had picked up on the cues, but Illya's head was lolling sideways. He looked as if he would collapse if Zoltan should happen to let go of him. It struck Napoleon with sudden force that Illya might be concussed - striking his head on the wall like that would do it - but with one eye closed he couldn't check if the pupils were uneven. Anxious not to waste any more time, he thrust the needle into Illya's arm and pushed the plunger. Illya's eye rolled upwards into his head and he sagged at the knees. As Zoltan pulled him into a more upright position, Napoleon stepped forward and smacked his friend's face smartly, three or four times. They were light blows, but they sounded impressive.

"Wakey-wakey!" he said. Illya's eye blinked open.

"Is someone in this satrapy passing information to UNCLE?" said Napoleon.

"Yes," said Illya in a dazed voice.

"And who is it?"

"I don't know. Someone high up."

"Delancey? Zoltan?"

"I don't know."

Napoleon dropped the empty syringe. "You heard him," he snapped to Zoltan, "There's a mole. I'm getting out of here right now. For all I know, this entire dinner was an elaborate charade to entrap me. And I'm taking the prisoner back to Central with me for a proper interrogation. You there!" - the guard sprang to attention - "Get this prisoner to my car!"

As they exited the cell, he could hear Zoltan on the phone to Delancey, already struggling with the net of doubt and distrust, uncertain of how much to say and how much to conceal, but clearly convinced of the absolute necessity of removing the mole before Project Deathwatch could be activated.

As soon as the guard had tossed Illya into the back and closed the door, Napoleon slammed down the gas pedal and the car leaped forward with a jerk.

"Ow!" said a voice from the back seat. "Your driving's got worse since you've been working for Thrush."

"Illya!" In his shock, Napoleon narrowly avoided driving into a tree. He wrenched at the steering wheel and the car veered back onto the driveway.

"Ow!" said Illya again, "Let me drive, you maniac." He clambered into the front seat, and flashed Napoleon a grin. The swollen eye, Napoleon noticed, was now more than half open, and though Illya still looked a bit bruised under the dirt, it was par for the course in their line of work. There was certainly no sign of concussion. Napoleon knew he should feel relieved.

"What the hell were you playing at back there?" he asked, suddenly furious. "You seriously jeopardized the mission, not to mention destroying my cover!"

"That was blown anyway," said Illya. "Pull over after that gate and let me - oof! Do you have to turn so sharply?"

"What do you mean, blown?" demanded Napoleon, shifting up a gear.

"Safire's escaped, so Waverly sent me in to get you out before it all went completely pear-shaped. Honestly, Napoleon, I don't know what you'd do without me around to rescue you."

Napoleon almost drove into a another tree. " _You_ rescued _me_?" he snarled, "You were half dead back there!"

"Not even a quarter," said Illya smugly. Then he caught sight of Napoleon's face as they passed under a streetlight. "Well, maybe an eighth," he offered, in the manner of a politician making a generous concession on oil prices, in the expectation that this will avoid World War Three.

Napoleon was less sure about that. "So what was your plan?" he said in a dangerously level voice, shifting up another gear as a bend in the road approached. "Get yourself captured? Check. Get yourself tortured? Check. But somehow I seem to be missing the part where you warn me that my cover is blown and help me get out of the satrapy." They shot round the curve and the tires screamed in protest.

"I thought you'd worked out for yourself that something was up," said Illya, who was strapping in his seat belt, evidently resigned to a rough ride. "What did you expect me to do, shout out in front of everyone 'That's not Safire'?"

"Isn't _reductio ad absurdum_ beneath someone of your supposed intellectual capacities?" said Napoleon, braking sharply as two red tail-lights appeared almost under his front wheels. "You could have done something in the cell when the guard left - jumped Zoltan, or said something to me. I could have taken him out easily." He accelerated past the vehicle, deriving a grim satisfaction from the driver's angry toots.

"Yes, and because you didn't try anything, I assumed you had a plan," said Illya in frustration. "Why else would you pass up so many opportunities?"

"Possibly," said Napoleon through gritted teeth, "because not blowing my cover had a higher priority than rescuing you. Did you ever think about that? That if I hadn't come up with the idea of the mole, I'd have had to watch Zoltan kill you? Because if you thought I was going to put saving your stupid neck before the mission, you've got another think coming."

"And why on earth would I expect you to put anything before the mission?" snapped Illya. "You're the great Napoleon Solo. The word 'failure' doesn't exist in your vocabulary."

"Well, it does now! The moment Delancey contacts Thrush Central they'll find out I wasn't the real Safire. They'll know the mole story was bull, and they'll probably bring the release date forward to this evening. I've completely screwed up the mission, thanks to you, and your moronic, amateur ideas of what constitutes a rescue." The wider implications of Safire's escape hadn't occurred to him until that moment, and the thought of the havoc the virus would unleash made him sick to his stomach. He stamped down on the gas pedal in compensation, and the car surged over a bump in the road and bucked wildly.

"They _can't_ contact Thrush, as it so happens," said Illya, clinging to the edge of his seat. "I cut the phone lines and left a scrambler in the grounds - that's what I was doing when I was captured. And Section 8 reckon they'll have synthesised the antidote by tomorrow, so thanks to your 'mole story' they should have all the time they need. Does that make you feel like slowing down?"

"No," said Napoleon. It was true. The news should have made him feel better - he should have felt waves of relief washing over him; the sense of nausea that he associated with failure should have vanished as if it had never been. Damn it, what was wrong with him? Of course he was pleased that Thrush's plans had been foiled, that millions of people had been spared an agonizing death. And yet the knot of anger in his gut tightened.

"Why the hell didn't you let me know back there that the mission was aborted?" he demanded, gunning the engine.

"I told you," snapped Illya, losing patience, "I thought you had a plan. You certainly _looked_ as if you had a plan, all smug and inscrutable. And if there was any way of saving the mission, then that had to take priority."

"And what if Zoltan had _killed_ you?"

Now Illya was offended. "That was schoolboy stuff," he said angrily, "or did you skip those classes in Survival School? Oh no, I'm sorry, you got top marks, just like you got top marks in Behaving Like An Ass classes and first prize in the Biggest Ego competition."

"Whereas you," said Napoleon, "majored in Letting Someone Else Do All The Work. You really had no idea what I was up against, did you? You honestly thought you could just waltz in, let yourself get caught, and rely on me to pull something out of thin air? And all you had to do was hang in there long enough?"

"I'm sorry if my faith in your abilities offends you," said Illya stiffly. "You've come up with plans in much more unlikely situations. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I simply trusted you?"

"And has it occurred to _you_ that that was a really stupid thing to do?" hissed Napoleon. "I can promise you that if the situation had been reversed, I wouldn't have trusted you to get me out. If it's ever you undercover and me in trouble, I'm not just going to lie back and wait for you to come up with a brilliant plan."

"I didn't just lie back!"

"Sure you did. Sit around, paint your nails, wait for Solo to come up with a solution."

"You make it sound as if I was enjoying myself!"

"I thought you said it wasn't anything you couldn't handle?"

"Yes, but it still _hurt_. I don't let myself get tortured for fun, you know. Sexual perversions are your department."

"At least I _have_ sex," Napoleon was beginning to say, and then caught himself just in time. What on earth had got into him? He sounded like a mother screaming at a child that has just missed being run over by a car, descending to a six year old level of argument with a fury fuelled by pure terror. With a tremendous effort, he got a grip on himself.

"Thank you for your contribution to our escape," he said icily. "I appreciate that you were attempting to back me up. However, next time I'm in a tricky situation like that, I hope you'll come up with a more proactive solution."

"Fine," said Illya, "I will. And if ever the boot is on the other foot, if you're the one who's captured and I'm the one with the cover to maintain, I look forward to watching your inventive escape. I'm sure it will leave nothing for me to do but sit around admiring your initiative and daring. And now let me drive before you kill us both."


End file.
